You Either Die A Hero
by Aladar
Summary: As a battle between two Asakuras decides the fate of humanity itself, a certain nekomata recalls the time spent with the two different faces of the same coin. After all, time is like a river- and sometimes, only sometimes, it takes a different turn.


**AN:** This 'little' by my standarts one-shot just came out of nothing as I was wondering what to type tonight. Now lookie here, I've something vaguely akin to an overly long prologue (long for a prologue at least) for the newest fic I'm working on. This is the nail that sets everything in motion. And to make sure I won't drop it after I start positing it. I ain't posting nothing of it till I finish the first arc. At least I'm midway there. Anyways, I hope you nejoy this oneshot. R&R- reviews, simple comments, fmales, it doesn't matter. Just keep 'em coming.

* * *

_**Prelude to Infinity**_

_You either die a hero…_

Even after all these years, he can't help but be amazed. The two roaring titans, each of them a god in its own right, clash with strength the mere force of which threatens to blow his semi-ethereal body away. A cobweb of fissures explodes from beneath their feet and with eerie glee attempts to devour the cat spirit but reflexes mastered over half a millennia once again take him to safety, his unwavering eyes refusing to tear away from the terrifying sight in front of him.

Terrifying… yet majestic at the same time.

The official has abandoned his position a long time ago. The strange grey being with the large round eyes beneath which he had seen its true face was nowhere to be seen, albeit the nekomata's senses, for all the confusion and destruction rampaging around, can still detect it. Watching. Observing. Evaluating.

Neutral even in the face of death itself.

One cannot tell anymore where the elevated platform ended and where the hundreds of terraces, seemingly reaching all the way up towards a sky hidden beyond the deepest depths of the ocean, began. What had been a literal wonder, a coliseum reaching beyond the veil of imagination itself, lay in ruins around him. The ground itself is like an ocean in a storm. Each clash of the titans sends tidal waves which engulf the whole arena like a tsunami, only for the quakes that always follow after each step of the godly beings to shift them once again.

Forever changing. Never calm.

He isn't sacred. He never was actually. He just watches, unflinching, as the giants exchange blow after blow, with force enough to raze to the ground any unfortunate city in their wake. Their eyes are aflame, one pair- literally, and he could swear he could see thunder and lightning shoot out of them and collide with a roar which would make even dragons tremble in fear.

Or is it just the Earth groaning once again as her bones are shattered, casualties caught in the struggle between foes of seemingly equal strength?

The Dai Tengu spreads his half a dozen wings, white as the snow that adorned the highest peaks in the harsh winter, and lunges at his opponent once again with the force of a pack of frenzied dragons. The other spirit, a force of nature in every sense of the word, waits for the blow, unflinching. He takes it head on, its very roar threatening to shatter mountains as it pushes back and lashes out with its blazing claws.

But still, the bakeneko watches. Refuses to abandon the battlefield. He has a mission, a goal… a promise to keep. And the raging fire continues to engulf everything in its wake, spreads and incinerates every single thing its probing tentacles manage to touch.

Another clash. Another quake.

A boulder, at least a dozen times his size, flies towards the bakeneko. Seconds later its perfectly sliced two halves crash somewhere in the distance behind him, almost an unnoticed addition to the kingdom of chaos that his world had become.

The Nekomata observes. And it pains him so. Or maybe its relief that hurts so much?

His eyes are like a mirror, as one can see the reflections of the two men in the depths of their blackness. Not that he knows it. Or cares. He, who has lived for hundreds of years, seen all there is to see- or at least he likes to think so- is forced to retreat with each clash. Little by little- but still, he did. They… those two just stay there, unmoving, as the world itself crumbles around them.

It pains him how much they look alike. The little differences are still there- two sets of eyes so different from each other, a stance so different from the other, a feature or two changed over the course of five hundred years. But in their cores, they are like two sides of the same coin.

Same faces. Different views.

And yet he knows how tired they are both, it doesn't matter to the bakeneko how much they try to hide it. The two shamans are like an open book to the aged cat spirit, just like all the hundreds of others whose wisdom he had gathered over the long, long years.

The younger refuses to yield, to cringe. The nekomata knows how the man just wants to shout in a vain attempt to relieve the pain of losing his arm, burned to a crisp in an earlier clash.

The one with long, obsidian hair stares down his foe with the same air of might and authority he has ever looked upon the ones he deemed lesser. The nekomata can see how barely breathes, somehow managing to live by only on the tiniest amounts of air his own spirit hasn't consumed to feed itself yet.

And yet, both refuse to falter. Both cry out another order, sick their divine spirits at each other one more time. The two of them know the end is nigh. Both accept it. Not their death, of course, only the one of the other.

The Dai Tengu gathers all his strength, readies the blade… attacks. It amazes even the bakeneko, he who has seen so many things already. A single blade becomes a thousand as the volley of strikes splits air itself. The embodiment of fire plays along with its master's gambit, allows the blow to connect.

And the bakeneko's eyes widen when he sees how the flames become water and the titan's body crumbles under its opponent's attack. The Tengu does not celebrate however, for his eyes show he recognizes defeat. Before the younger man could react the million of droplets drenching the body of his spirit transform once more, this time into lightning. Albeit blinded, the bakeneko knows the outcome. And lunges forward, leaping, twisting and cutting his way through the forest of jutting rocks separating him from his master.

He was the one that morphs this time, he is the enormous katana that the young man uses to duel with the creature, who is back to its original fiery form once again. Both shaman and spirit think they are fighting a losing battle at first. But hope shines through, as the titan's flames gradually lose their might with each one of their blows. Their opponent is struggling, something they had not dared even dream of since the very beginning. It disturbs the nekomata somehow, makes him sad even. Their foe's glassy eyes, without a single glimpse of light in them- they look tired. He _is_ tired.

And that scares the nekomata even more than the monstrosity fueled by nature itself that he is facing. They are winning but its _hurts_ him. Not the pain of flesh- it's a different feeling, one that he tries to banish lest it is the downfall of both shaman and spirit. The bakeneko doesn't want to admit it. But the fact remains- it pains him, pains him to see the one that gave him life back again in such a shape.

He is not supposed to be tired. He is not supposed to lose. He is not supposed to falter and steadily walk back in search of a better defensive position. All those lingering thoughts from one too many lifetimes away, they refuse to leave the nekomata's mind.

But the battle cannot last forever. Eventually, thanks to some miracle they had not even dared dream of, the hulking giant of flames finally withers away after their last strike, leaving only embers soaring high into the air and the raging fire that still encircles them. The younger shaman finally dares groan in pain and halt his onslaught for a second.

This is it. The moment they have been training for, waiting for… longing for. And yet, while the master somehow manages to make a tired smile spread on his cracked lips… the spirit remains silent. For something inside him wants to jump in front of the man lying across of them and protect him. Give him life back like he had done all those five hundred years ago.

But the bakeneko's shaman pushes forward and raises the living blade high above his head. He knows his duty. He knows his purpose- the one to himself, to his clan, friends… family. The younger shaman had made a promise and he was going to live up to it. A promise so alike, yet so different from the one of his spirit.

The time for the final blow has come. The shaman brings the blade down with the last of his strength, about to put a finish to the end of the world before it had even began. The still hot air splits in two as the giant katana lunges at its prey.

The nekomata knows his has to obey, to trust the one that had become like a brother to him. After all, he was his mochirei. He obeys. Always.

It was not the nekomata that met Hao. It was Hao that found him. He saved the life of one stinky, skinny stray cat that had somehow survived amidst the terror of war and diseases. Hao gave him more than food and shelter or life after death. He gave him a friend- something the nekomata did not even know the meaning of in those scary cold winters so long ago.

It was not the nekomata that found the boy. Yohken was the one that, stubborn as a mountain goat, climbed the mountain just like one. The boy had the honor of being born in time for the Shaman Fight. And had the stupidity to self-proclaim himself the Asakuras' chosen and run off in search for the fabled cat spirit that had promised his help against the founder of the clan when the time came.

Hao was polite, gentle and wanted to rid the world of all its misery. Yohken was brash, proud and wanted to prove he was the best of his line. Hao asked him to become his guardian spirit. Yohken demanded the nekomata became his one.

The bakeneko was amazed by the generosity of a man of Hao's status in that dark age. He was not one to judge people by their heritage or birthrights. He treated the poor without taking any money. He took in homeless children who had the gift of seeing demons and spirits and showed them the right way.

The bakeneko was amazed by the sheer ego of a young man of Yohken's status. He did not even allow the other youth to touch his medium, the Futsuu no Mitama no Tsurgi. He refused to lose his time with the mundane problems of the villagers and preferred to spend the whole day training instead. He put his quest ahead of the current needs of the clan he was heir to one too many times.

Hao devoted his whole life to helping the ones that had taken the one thing he had loved from him - his mother. Yohken devoted his youth to becoming strong enough to fulfill a promise made by the Asakuras half a millennia ago- at any cost.

The nekomata watched as his friend and master created a clan strong enough to rival the royal family itself out of nothing. The cat spirit watched as Hao formed a family out of the street urchins strong in the divine art, ones that reminded the man of himself. Alas, the bakeneko watched as Hao turned down each and every woman, be it noble or not, that longed for his heart. Hao still had a true place for only one person in his heart- his mother. And so, the cat spirit watched as his friend steadily created a fissure between himself and the very family he had created.

The nekomata watched as the young man matured and became the symbol of strength for his clan. The bakeneko was there when the people had started bowing down to Yohken out of true respect, not because of the blood that was inside the young man's veins. The nekomata observed with glee every time his new friend and master banged his head against the wall pondering how to win over a girl already promised to the young prince himself. The nekomata was there to spread his lips in a witty grin when Yohken did the impossible and not only won her over, but built a family of his own. Yohken finally started to learn that was more to life than furyoku levels- his wife and child thought him so.

Hao refused to let go and forbid his own heart to heal from the old wounds. Yohken found the strength to move on and create a family of his own after the death of his parents.

The nekomata was there when Hao's descend into madness began, taking one small chip off the man's soul after another day by day. The cat spirit was there when Hao locked himself into his quarters and shrieked like a wounded beast as the hatred and pain emanated from the hearts of all those around him finally became too much to bear. The bakeneko was there when Hao finally realized his inability to save the humans that had refused help and clung to their old ways of hatred, greed and envy over and over again.

The nekomata was there when Yohken refused to give up when the people from the foreign village pelted him with rocks and called him a demon. He kept on going until he found that child in the blizzard and took her back. She cursed him also, like all the others. But he kept on going.

Hao was overcome by the power of Reishi, broken after hearing the thoughts of all the malicious people around him. Yohken's spirit refused to falter even when an angry mob threatened to kill him for being a shaman. And saved child they had already left for dead

The cat spirit can't help but ask himself even at that moment- would Yohken have turned out different if he had been born with the gift (or was it a curse) of Reishi? Perhaps. Perhaps not. The nekomata knows the answer is irrelevant to his current predicament. Now, as the katana slices through the nearly boiling air, he can admit it.

He is hesitating.

He doesn't want it.

But he knows he has to.

Hao had raised and cared for the bakeneko- the man had showed him what friendship meant. Yohken had brought him out of his stupor and had reminded the lonely cat spirit what it was to have someone close to your heart. Hao had given the nekomata everything he had ever wanted. Yohken had given one old too-wise-for-his-own-good spirit the one thing he didn't have-the chance to save his friend from himself.

Hao made one simple sick stray cat into a warrior, a poet, a higher being that had the chance and power to help others. And by showing kindness to a mere animal in its time of need, the man had thought the cat what it really meant to help others. Hao had said he needed a spirit to protect him. The nekomata knew he had lied. But… he kept quiet about it, did not say a single word about the lonely man that had chosen to share the majority of his life with a talking cat that was too witty for his own good.

After all, cats are attracted to lonely people, are they not?

The journey alongside Yohken was unlike anything the bakeneko had ever experienced before. It was not the traveling to distant places the cat had already visited or all the new people they met, fought or befriended. It was Yohken himself- a young boy too stubborn for his own good that had proved humanity had more than two faces. Yohken condemned Hao's teachings. But he condemned the ones that had driven his ancestor to such a state, too. The nekomata had deemed the boy the middle way at first, the balance between the shaman and the human.

The cat spirit had laughed at his own foolishness later.

There was no middle way, never has and never will. Half a millennia of wondering the world. Enough to learn just about everything about people. And plenty enough to forget who they actually are. Yohken was but one of the many faces of humanity, for all the boy's boasting about strength, legacies and great destiny, that was who Yohken was in the end. A mere human, flawed as the rest.

To put it simply, Hao's heart had blackened as he tried to save humanity from itself. Yohken set out to save humanity for all the wrong reasons, only to learn why he had to do it that fateful day when he cradled his son in his arms for the first time.

Yohken had demanded the nekomata to be his guardian spirit. He had obliged.

Yohken had ordered him to teach him all the cat spirit knew. He had obeyed, he was his mochirei after all.

Yohken had asked him, confused, what to do to win her over. He had proposed one of his witty schemes. He was his mochirei, was he not?

Yohken had pleaded him to protect his wife and child if only one of them survived. He had agreed. He was his friend, was he not?

But isn't Hao his friend and brother as well?

They say Hao had gone mad with power. The nekomata knows the truth. They say Hao is a monster. The nekomata still sees the man that saved him in those black eyes that are so much like his own. They say Hao will annihilate humanity if he wins. The bakeneko knows it is true. But don't humans really destroy themselves and Earth as well in their never-ending power struggles, century after century, millennia after millennia? And isn't the very battle the cat and his master are waging now just as futile? Won't the mighty Asakura be back another five hundred years later, even stronger than before thanks to battling his way through Hell itself?

Was there any point?

The seconds are like centuries. And yet the katana is finally about to reach its helpless victim. The evil is about to be banished, be it for five or five hundred years.

But… bad people can't see spirits, can they? And Hao sees, sees like any other has ever seen.

The ephemeral katana withers away, the millions of pieces of its suddenly broken blade melting into the still air and harmlessly raining upon the duo of shamans. Both are baffled. Both know one of them is going to die. Both know… the roles have been reversed.

The nekomata hides his tears as the flames engulf the body of the man he has grown to think of as a brother. He wants it to be different but, at the same time, realizes how futile their goal has been. As the body of the young man crumbles to ashes, the bakeneko knows that he understands.

He was _his_ mochirei, after all. He couldn't obey.

…_or live long enough to see yourself become the villain._


End file.
